


Memento Vivere

by orphan_account



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Orphanage, Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Emotionally stunted and socially inept genii (and their sort of caretaker)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> As the disclaimers say, I am not acquainted with Death Note at all. All I know are the basics: Light Yagami is tragic (regardless of his apparent god complex) because he believed he was doing what was best for humanity and died because he was wrong (to be honest, I don’t think it’s that bad, killing off rapists and serial killers. I just don’t understand what’s wrong with killing people that are going to die in prison anyway. Or maybe I don’t understand because I’ve never taken the time to truly delve into it), L is eccentric and sits weirdly, Quillsh is Watari, Near has white hair, Mello is a boy, and Matt likes video games.  
> The language may be weird because, what? There are jets and technology, but they talk like it’s the 1800s? I guess I wanted a change of pace—there’s no good reason for it.  
> Also. The name Kiran. Why Kiran, you might wonder? Beam of light. Beam of Light.

**Memento Vivere**

**Warning(s):** I wrote this with the intent of fluff because I’ve been very depressed lately and I need an outlet. I also have a history of killing off my favorite characters, no matter who or what fandom; now, I don’t _plan_ on killing anyone, but I don’t know for sure if I _won’t_.

 **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Death Note; in fact, I’ve never even watched it! Or read it. Or know anything about it.

He closed his eyes.

_“Oh dear, he has nowhere else to go.”_

_“How did they die? Do you know? How did it happen?”_

_“I heard it was by truck. The driver fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into their car.”_

_“Well,_ I _heard it was a hit. One of the mobsters that Yagami put away hired someone to kill the whole family.”_

 _“Really? Either way, it’s a good thing the boy wasn’t in that car. Poor boy. I saw pictures, you know. It was a_ mess _.”_

_“It might have been better if he’d been there with them. Don’t you think? He’s all alone now.”_

_“Maybe. He’ll have to go through session after session of therapy. Do you think an orphanage would pay for it?”_

_“No, I’d reckon not. He’ll definitely grow up jaded. Do you think?”_

_“Yes. It’s a shame—I heard he was an exceptionally bright boy, too. All alone, now.”_

_“Poor boy. Poor boy. What do you think he’s thinking about right now? The last words he’s shared with them?”_

_“You’re awfully insensitive, you know. You shouldn’t say things like that, you know.”_

_“I suppose you’re right. I just wish I could help.”_

_“Don’t we all? Poor boy.”_

“Hello there. My name is Quillsh Wammy.”

He opened his eyes.

 

Quillsh Wammy was an old man. Wise, he hoped. Decrepit, no yet. But his bones were creaking and there was only so much he could do for the orphanage as both founder and caretaker before he grew exhausted. His hair was mostly grey, with specks of black as if his own body was trying to hold on to some semblance of youth. Maybe it was conscious as well, in the way he refused to change his hairstyle from when he was a young man: always gelled back meticulously. His moustache was thick and completely grey, and the glasses perched on his nose had the same frame for the past ten or so years. Save for the occasional lens change—because whether he wanted it or not, time was always there to meet him at the end as his body sanded away the last of youth—nothing changed. Quillsh Wammy did not include change in his daily schedule (except when he did).

Namely, when he went to Japan due to L’s constant badgering.

_“I would like something from Japan.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Pastries.” The boy, at that time hunched over a laptop, flipped the screen around and pointed at row after row of colorful Google images._

_“We have these in Winchester.”_

_“But this is East Asian.”_

_He paused and sighed, “Very well then; I will send for it right away.”_

_“No, please go yourself.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I trust you the most.”_

And Quillsh, who was weak to sentiment and quite fond of L, conceded, and took a private jet to Japan with a list of popular cafés in hand.

But now he was at the funeral of a man he did not know, kneeled in front of young boy he did not know, preparing to offer him a new life at an orphanage at the opposite side of the world. Perhaps it had been Fate, for he would not have met Light had he gone into a different taxi.

He would not have heard the radio static to life and listened to the shocked announcers recollecting a terrible car accident on a highway. He would not have looked up “Yagami Light” and extended his stay in Japan, waiting for the caskets of decimated corpses to close and the final letters on marble gravestones to carve.

He would not be on his groaning knees, looking straight into the despairing face of an uncannily intelligent child who was suddenly thrust into a world, abandoned and to his lonesome.

“Hello there. My name is Quillsh Wammy,” he said, softly, but not soft enough so as to drown in the anguish of all those present. Offhandedly, he noticed that it was such a beautiful day for a funeral.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, there was heavy silence between them. It was a test—of course it was a test, when was anything not—because Quillsh had spoken in English due to a sneaking suspicion that the boy understood him. He waited, until, “Good afternoon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Silence again. Light spoke as the old man opened his mouth, “You do not belong here.”

His jaws snapped shut and he replied, “No, I do not. How did you know?”

The child looked quite floundered, with his little eyebrows pinched together as he sought to create a sentence with whatever scraps of English he knew. He bit his lips, tearing a bit of the skin. “I know my father’s…friends.” It was obvious he wasn’t happy with the elementary vocabulary of his sentence.

“Ah, a bright fellow such as yourself ought to know your father’s colleagues,” he replied, pleased as the youth recognized the term ‘colleague’ and mouth it several times. _Colleague. Colleague._ “How?”

But Light was battling with other words, like ‘fellow’ and ‘ought’, because their curriculum wasn’t made to accommodate words like that—only simple greetings. Good morning, good afternoon, good evening. Hello, goodbye, thank you, I’m sorry. He was frustrated, but had the propriety to conceal it because that’s what his parents taught him.

Quillsh watched him crumble, watched his small shoulders collapsing under the weight of utter anguish, decorum be damned. What was, what could have been, crushing his heart as a great wail tore out from his throat.

“It’s not fair. It’s just not _fair,_ ” he wept, standing on his own two feet, torn between throwing a tantrum like a child and holding his own like an adult. Then he said a few things in Japanese that Quillsh had no business knowing—that no one had any business knowing—not because it was necessarily sensitive information, no, but because father and mother won’t be coming back.

Sayu won’t be coming back, either. They’re gone, gone, and buried under six feet of dirt, and no matter how loud his screams were, they wouldn’t be rising out of the grave to wipe his tears away, not anymore. Apologies fall on deaf ears because that is the universe, which has always taken sick pleasure in things it ought not to because it’s not _decent_ (but the universe has never been decent, has it?).

So the old man hugged him, using his wrinkled hand to gently press the boy’s head into the crook of his own neck, and they stayed there repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And Light clutched his shoulders, his small fingers seeking purchase and company, screaming until his throat turned raw and his tears were all spent.

_“Do you want to come with me?”_

_“Where?”_

_“Winchester, England.”_

_“Okay.”_

 

L, who was scrutinizing the limo from a window on the top floor, watched the founder enter the iron gates with a suitcase in one hand and a boy in the other. He ought not to have been surprised, but he couldn’t help a small twinge of curiosity as they walked up the steps and disappeared into the front doors of the orphanage. Wammy, L knew, had a propensity towards picking up strays, so him returning with a burgeoning genius made perfect sense.

He was torn between going downstairs to meet them and waiting upstairs, but it only took a moment’s contemplation before his inquisitive nature got the better of him, and he crept down the steps. The children were still in class.

“Wammy,” he greeted, tilting his head slightly towards the incoming duo and eyeing the suitcase hungrily. “You extended your visit.”

“That I did, but the pastries are as if I bought it today. I went to all the shops that I did with the help of this young man,” the old man looked down at the child beside him, who had almond-shaped eyes and a polite smile fixed on his face. “His name is Kiran.”

“Hindi and Sanskrit origin, I wonder?” L mused offhandedly, eyes fixed upon the small boy he knew was itching not to seek Wammy’s hand for comfort. “That is a very pretty name. I am L. That suitcase has cake.”

Kiran, as he had predicted, was not yet acquainted with the English language and chose to stay silent, nodding respectfully when he thought it necessary. Kiran. Beam of light. Wammy was an awfully romantic man.

“I suppose this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he continued, nibbling on his thumb for a moment. “I do so love light, maybe as much as I love cake. Do pass the suitcase, Wammy, my excitement simply cannot be contained—thank you. Come now, Kiran. Do you like cake?”

Kiran, bless his soul, looked completely lost. His eyes were so very expressive, as most are, and he began to fidget slightly, shuffling his feet and looking around.

“L,” Wammy chastised, shaking his head. “Stop teasing Kiran like that. I’ll be with you in a moment’s time—please keep his company.”

“Of course,” he replied, and beckoned Kiran forward. They went together towards the mess hall, L wondering which cake to eat first and the other determined to learn as much English as he could for the next few days.

The first several minutes were spent in absolute silence. L set the suitcase delicately on the wooden table farthest from the entrance and removing all the trays within it. The colors were magnificent and made his mouth water. Crème, chocolate, syrup, sugar. Is that not every man’s dream?

‘By God!’ L picked up one of them with his index finger and thumb, examining it from the side. ‘A cat donut!’ Truly magnificent.

He ate, as he always did, shoveling forkful after forkful of cake whilst scrutinizing Kiran, who returned his gaze in amazement. L offered a bite of a raspberry-something as a peace offering of sorts, but it was politely—because everything Kiran did was polite, it seemed—rejected. No loss, though.

“How old are you, Kiran?” L, master of multitasking, asked while chewing. It seemed like the Japanese were fond of French pastries, since the raspberry-something was awfully similar to one he had during an excursion to France last year.

“Twelve,” replied the boy. “And you?”

“I am thirty-four years old,” he replied, deadpanned and unapologetic. It was a mournful thing, indeed, that the raspberry something was reduced to a quarter of its size.

“Thirty-four?”

“Quite so.” An eighth. Did L stop? Did he dare?

“Are you,” Kiran paused, pursing his lips so as to remember the word, “kidding?”

“Yes.” No, L did not stop because he was not disciplined in restraint and, frankly, found it impractical.

“Are you seventeen?”

“Also yes. Astute observation, just as your name suggests. Dazzling.”

Kiran didn’t seem to understand, but nodded silently. They continued staring at each other until something in the younger boy snapped, and he slid out of his seat to return with a handful of napkins from another table. The napkins were placed beside the trays of pastries. A peace offering.

The older boy ignored it, even when Kiran nudged them towards his hunched figure—and no, he wasn’t sulking over the bite of raspberry-something he offered the boy seven minutes ago even though it was definitely a delicious bite and not one easily acquired from a cake aficionado such as himself. Perhaps Kiran would have given up, had L not dropped a considerable amount of cream on the tabletop. Woe is he! The waste! He scooped it up with his finger and suckled on it.

The child across from him stiffened and L was positively delighted until a napkin darted towards his face and wiped his mouth. It was softly brushed over his lips and the corner of his mouth, the owner of the offending hand had his honey-tinted eyes narrowed and lips pursed in concentration. Then the napkin retreated, folded neatly in half, and the child that was half-standing out of his chair returned to his originally seated position while the latter was yet frozen in time, eyes wide and abandoned platters of cake sitting before him.

L then realized that he was a seventeen-year-old boy who, no matter how blessed he was with intelligence and high metabolism, was rejected the opportunity of being the object of parental love since birth, and that a child five years his junior was more experienced in doting and loving than he because the boy had twelve more years of familiarity.

The rest of their time together was spent in comfortable silence, L pondering the impact of family on individuals and Kiran wondering what happened to the conversation.

 

“We had a most fetching conversation,” L stated matter-of-factly, rolling a powdered strawberry around his plate. His back was hunched over, his bare toes curled around the chair’s edge. “I may go as far as saying it was religious.”

“Is that so?” Quillsh asked, sitting in the seat beside Kiran. “Care to elaborate?”

The teenager made a contemplative sound, tilting his head to the side, before replying, “No, I’m afraid I can’t. It’s a matter of utmost importance and requires secrecy and care. Very private, I hope you can understand.”

Kiran attempted to look interested, but his fidgeting and wandering eyes gave him away.

“You can’t say that and expect me not to prod, do you?” said old man retorted, scooting in his chair closer to L. “Go on. Give an old man the benefit of the doubt.”

A devilish smirk twisted the raven’s lips as he replied, “Well. I won’t say much but I will say this: I have never touched anyone, much less been touched by anyone, in this way. Ever. In the entirety of my life.”

“Emotionally?” Quillsh prompted. L merely stared at him with those expressionless black eyes. “Dear Lord. I hope you don’t mean _physically—_ ”

“I will say no more,” L interrupted dramatically, taking the time to bite into the strawberry and exaggerate the chewing and swallowing, “but know—and I say this with all the sincerity in my heart—that my cherry has been popped.”

And then he hopped out of his seat, leaving behind a disarray of empty plates in his wake, and disappeared behind the arch of the mess hall. The quiet padding of his footsteps followed him upstairs and Quillsh stayed with Kiran, confused out of his mind. Cherry? _Virginity?_

He was sure L was joking—L had a terrible proclivity for jokes since early in his youth—but there were always truths buried within them. In this case, the truths must be: one, L has had contact with Kiran. Quillsh knew this for a fact, since he was the one who put the boy in L’s care, and two, there has been an event, either physical or emotional, that has never happened to L before—an event short enough to occur in the span of approximately ten to fifteen minutes. He mulled over that one for a bit, until he gave up and asked Kiran in Japanese, “What happened while I was gone?”

Kiran replied, crossing his ankles to still the kicking of his legs, “Nothing really. L ate cakes and I watched. He spoke to me at first but stopped—probably because I didn’t understand.”

“What did he say?”

“He joked about being thirty-four years old and said some other things, but I’m not certain… I’ll be sure to study English tonight.”

“And…anything else?”

“I realized he was a very messy eater and offered him napkins, but he didn’t accept any, so I had to clean his mouth for him. He doesn’t have much manners for a seventeen year old.”

“No one here really does,” Quillsh said, pinching the moustache over his lips with his fingers before continuing. “That may be my mistake. I created this place with the intention of housing and nurturing genii, but only the intellectual side of them. That has unintentionally made many of them unable to acclimate to the outside world.”

“A house of eccentricities,” Kiran mused, a look of wonder passing over his face. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Indeed,” the man replied. Kiran was the one with the most familial contact in all of Wammy’s House. The others were either abandoned at birth or survivors of accidents at tragically young ages. “Perhaps you’ll bring about a change.”

The boy looked at him questioningly.

“Never you mind. It’s just the ramblings of an old man—anyhow, do prepare yourself. I believe classes are ending soon and it wouldn’t do to be overwhelmed when lunch is served.”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know the characters, only the memes. What I've learned so far: Near is sensitive, Roger doesn't like kids, L likes puns, and Light has underlying motives.  
> Now, you may be wondering: What's with the tags? Is it L and Light? Light and Near? A love triangle?  
> Well, I did it because I didn't know how else to tag it. Think: emotionally stunted genii. There's a new kid, someone with more experience with family than they'll ever get: what do they do? How do they feel? How do they categorize it, if they've never felt it before? Are they attracted because of the aspect of family or because of the person himself? I don't know.

There was a boy with hair as silver as freshly fallen snow who sat at the back of the classroom. Beside his notebook was a blue-and-red toy robot with its arms outstretched, and he occupied himself by sticking pencils in the slotted hands and rearranging the limbs.

The end of class was signaled by the finality of the instructor’s shut notebook and the students soon filed out of the room in a hurry. Near was the last one, opting to pack his notebook and spare toys with leisure since there was not much to look forward to. Perhaps he would play with the new Legos he’d been keeping stashed away. Or the darts? His Transformers robots have been building dust…

He deposited his white pack in the cubby labeled with his name and ambled into the mess hall, which was buzzing with excitement. A new orphan, apparently. Joy.

“Settle down, children,” Roger Ruvie, an old man who was balding at a faster rate than Wammy despite being five years his junior, clapped his hands. An ethnic boy stood at his side, back straight and with a polite smile fixed on his face. Near wondered briefly if his cheeks ever got tired. “This is Kiran. He’ll be joining us from this day forward, so do help him acclimate to the orphanage despite the current language barrier, as he can not yet understand the entirety of the English dialect.”

Then, with a friendly pat on the shoulder, Roger left Kiran to fend for himself. Near would have taken it upon himself to invite the latter for lunch (no, he wouldn’t have), but the others were already swarming and the new Legos in his bedroom seemed like much better company than an orphan who couldn’t yet speak English. However, that wasn’t to say he neglected his observations.

Near retrieved his food, which was set out buffet-style on the table nearest to the entrance, and sat alone, as he always did, in the table situated in the far left. He examined the tables in the center that barely had enough elbow space, where Kiran looked only mildly discomforted. From the way he was nodding occasionally and smiling and laughing, it was clear that out of everyone in the orphanage, he was the one with the most social charm and experience.

“Are you smart? Do you understand what I’m saying?” Mello’s voice was as boisterous as his character and he had about as much tact as a rock. Which was to say: none at all. “Where are you from?”

Kiran answered, and though Near wasn’t close enough to hear him, Mello was loud enough for the both of them. “Japan! That’s a distance. Probably a ten hour flight on Wammy’s jet, ain’t it, Matt? Is it as expensive and plush as they say? How old are you?”

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Near wanted to exclaim to the garrulous blond, stabbing the green beans on his plate with a fork in one hand and curling the colorless strands of his hair around his index with the other. ‘Your method of questioning has no correlation!’ It was, if he may confess to himself, frustrating, scrutinizing their interaction, for people could not be manipulated as easily as toys. Rather, perhaps they _could_ , but not by one with so low a social delicacy as himself (and the entirety of Wammy’s House, save for maybe Wammy and Roger), which was why he would much rather work _around_ such quandaries.

The Japanese boy answered and Near was, again, unable to hear it until Mello exclaimed, “Twelve! I’m nine. I suppose that means I’m smarter than you, considering…”

Matt, shaking his bright red bangs out of his eyes, was curled over one of his handheld devices—a DS, if Near recalled correctly—and inserted his own commentary into the conversation (if their one-sided chattering could even be called such a thing), “That’s cool. The founder of Nintendo is Japanese, too... Three years older? I’m nine, like Mello…”

Perchance, if Near could be amongst his peers, he would have fancied answering as well. But he was not. He was not ‘Near-who-was-eight-and-delighted-with-toys-and-how-do-you-do-Kiran?’, he was simply a boy who sat, very much alone, at the table farthest to the left.

He crushed the green bean on his plate, left the half-uneaten meal on the table, and departed for his room. He felt Kiran’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked across and was almost compelled to stay. Should he stop by and say his greetings? Or did he keep walking in fear of rejection? They locked eyes for a moment, Kiran offering a smile before the others vied for his attention with the boundless torrent that was their questions.

Near felt oddly deprived when the Japanese boy turned away from him and decided to wander out of the mess, retrieving his backpack from his cubby, and took the hallway on the side in favor of spending the rest of the day in his room.

‘People who smile so much cannot be trusted,’ he told himself as he snuggled into the white linen of his blanket and cracked open a new case of Legos. ‘It was better not to stay.’

 

Roger Ruvie was not fond of children. But he was the caretaker, for goodness’ sake—his _occupation_ was to take care of them. It’s curious, even to himself, why he thought working at an orphanage was such a bright idea.

‘Yes, I do not like children,’ he thought bitterly to himself as he began putting the abandoned plates away. The new boy, Kiran, was beside him, quietly helping him. ‘As he ought to,’ thought he, as the last of the plates were retrieved. ‘And not a single word of thanks from the others! Improper spawn, they are.’

“Thank you, Kiran,” he sighed, his fingers wrinkly and dry. “The others ought to do what you do. That you would do this makes me hopeful for youth, but I suppose it’s the result of a difference in upbringing.”

Kiran didn’t seem to know what to do with the information; either that, or he simply did not understand. What a waste of heartfelt words, if that was so! Then the boy said, “Your welcome. Thank you for the food, it was…good. Very good.”

“Ah, yes, well. You’d better thank the cooks, then. These old hands of mine have trouble picking up even a pencil. And my back! Quillsh is older by five years, but I am cursed with this body. Aching bones, hair loss—and ungrateful children, to top it all off!” Roger would excuse himself, but it’s been quite a many months since he’s had anyone to talk to but the insects illustrated in his favorite books and encased in his favorite glass cabinets, and he offered himself some leeway. He doubted the latter could even understand. “I do apologize for the tangent. It seems I’ve been lonelier than I ever cared to admit.”

‘How polite the Japanese would be,’ he thought to himself as Kiran looked at him with deep, golden eyes and smiled sympathetically, ‘if Kiran were the independent variable.”

“You can tell me where it is. The kitchen. I will do this; I will put it there. Away,” Kiran offered, laying his hand atop the elongated serving trolley, “if you would like.”

“I would be ever thankful,” he replied, pleasantly surprised. It seemed like he would be retiring from lunch duty early. “It’s the double doors when you take the hallway to your right.” A warm rush of contentment burst in his chest at the thought of returning to his office. It was an odd thing, to be so delighted over something so small. He supposed this, this sense of cheeriness, was what the students felt when instructors missed a day of class and left the day open for self-studying.

Roger watched the child turn and disappear behind the arch, the sound of the rotating wheels the only evidence of his existence, and he himself soon followed, taking the steps upstairs. Because, what ulterior motive would Kiran have, if not to help out an old soul? What was there to do at the kitchen? Other than scoping out the orphanage and becoming accustomed to the grounds, there was nothing, and Roger would leave Kiran to his own devices.

The walls had eyes, after all, and Kiran was not as secretive as he thought he was. (It was his eyes that gave him away. Always the eyes.)

 

Classes ended an hour ago and L found himself utterly bored. There was absolutely no link between the two because L did not _go_ to class, but he was bored nonetheless. Was there any enemy, for a genius, worse than boredom? He’d not dare to think of it, if such a thing existed.

He considered calling Wammy for more pastries. Perhaps the fluffiness of a chiffon cake might make him feel better, or the thick creaminess of a cremeschnitte? A dacquoise? A fragelité? A mille-feuille?

“Curses,” he muttered to himself, flexing his bare toes while biting on his thumb. He was seated at his desk, papers scattered across the surface with laptops half-opened and nearly drained of battery. His search for a case, an interesting case, proved fruitless. Would he be left to reread a book he’s already memorized? Was there truly nothing left to do?

L stretched out of his chair, cracking his back as he stood. He would seek the company of his peers if he had genuinely wanted to speak to them, but he did not, for one of them was mentally unstable with an identity issue and the other was severely depressed. He was not in the mood for much conversation at the moment; anyhow, most conversations he held often turned to arguments, and he was most definitely not wanting of an argument, for the kind of boredom he was feeling made him mildly gloomy.

Thus, as the tragedy of his ennui demanded change, L left the isolation of his untidy room and sought the company of the kitchen, damn if the others were there or not. Shoeless, as per usual, and wearing a ratty white long sleeve shirt with food stains on them, he wandered downstairs and toward the corridor to the left, his feet quietly padding against the wooden floorboards.

He was aware, and markedly disinterested, of the muffled conversations held behind the doors of the children that chose to stay indoors. The others were outside, playing in the courtyard.

The sound of muffled clanging and running water echoed beyond the swinging doors and L peeked his head in, curious, since no one should be in. The dirty dishes were to be rinsed, thoroughly, and placed in the dishwasher.

But, lo and behold, there stood Kiran in all his glory, sleeves rolled back to his elbows and wrists completely submerged in soapy water. He was washing the dishes, by hand, very meticulously and the front of his shirt was already wet. L stood there, hunched over and wondering if he should interject, but was pilfered the chance when a husky voice behind him asked, “What are you looking at?”

L turned, very conscious not to jump, for the possessor of said voice was, quite frankly, one he would have liked to avoid. “B,” he replied in greeting, closing the door as he faced the latter. “A pleasure.”

“Is it?” he replied, imitating L’s hunched back and hairstyle to a T. To the untrained eye, they may as well be carbon copies of each other, but should they look closer, they may realize that B’s eyes were that of a deep burgundy and his shoulders were fairly larger than L’s. “I should be very thankful, then. Sometimes, I get the feeling you don’t like me as much. Sometimes, I think you _hate_ me,” B leaned in, his face mere inches away from L’s, “sometimes I think you want to _kill_ me, but you can’t. You can’t kill B because you’d be killing _yourself_ , but I know when _you’ll_ die. I can see it floating very prettily just above your head, like a halo. Are you an angel, L?”

“I should think not,” he said curtly, moving away from the door and expecting B to follow him.

B did not move, as he was torn between looking at what was beyond the swinging doors and trailing after L. “I should like to know what L was looking at.”

“ _L_ was merely pondering whether or not he would fancy a cuppa.”

“L would have called Wammy if he was merely pondering. L would not leave his room.”

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself,” L replied and B refused to move. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

“I should like to know what L was looking at,” B repeated, twisting his head back and forth at the doors to L. L to the doors. “I should like to know L’s secret.” And he pushed open the door silently, peering in the same way L did minutes ago.

“Hello,” said B’s voice from the other side. Then, his body slipped through the doors and L quickly followed. There was a sense of disappointment in his chest, but he did not understand it.

Kiran jerked his hands out of the water as if it had burned him. He then looked between the two newcomers and, suddenly, L disliked B considerably more for being beside him.

“Kiran,” L shuffled out in front of B, and it wasn’t a show of dominance because L had no reason to assert anything (except his dominance). “You are washing the dishes with your hands.”

The boy looked at the piled platters and utensils dripping with wet bubbles. “Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if he had just realized it then. He stuck his hands back in the water and continued scrubbing, occasionally peering over his small shoulder to look at them.

“Why?” L prodded, speaking quickly in hopes of denying B the chance to speak. “We have a dishwasher.” The pause of the scrubbing sounds was infinitesimal, but it was a hesitation long enough for L to connect the dots.

“You don’t have dishwashers in Japan?” he asked, in rhetoric, as he thought it might be better than saying it outright.

“We have dishwashers,” Kiran protested, sparing him a defensive glance, “but it broke. So we used hands.”

B spoke up then, looking insulted and slightly betrayed. “Your secret is a boy who is not intelligent enough to use a dishwasher?” He took a deep breath, pacing and muttering to himself, “No, no, that can’t be it. I wouldn’t do that— _he_ wouldn’t do that. There must be something I’m missing,” and he wandered out of the kitchen, his back ever curved and wine-red eyes in a bit of a craze.

 

Roger was seated in his office, pouring over a page on crickets, or _gryllidae_. He thought they were truly marvelous insects, what with their ability to stridulate by rubbing their wings together.

“Crickets diverged from other Orthopterans, like katydids, in the Triassic period about two hundred fifty to two hundred million years ago,” read the book. “Continuing this divergence through the Triassic and Jurassic periods, approximately two hundred to one hundred forty-five million years ago, crickets…”

Stomping footsteps from outside echoed down the corridor and Roger prayed to whatever deity that may exist outside the worldly realm that it wasn’t who he thought it was and it wasn’t approaching him; alas, Roger was not a religious man.

B burst through the doors, seething in annoyance as he flung himself across the room to Roger’s mahogany desk. The old man daintily shut his book.

“I don’t like him, I don’t like him,” the teenager chanted, his blunt nails digging into the gloss of the table. “Why is he here?”

“You must develop your questions before demanding answers, Beyond,” he replied with a sigh, intertwining his wrinkled fingers and placing his chin on it.

“Do _not_ ,” the latter snarled, “do that. You know I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like many things. You cannot possibly expect anyone to remember all of them, do you?”

“L would.”

“L would not care.”

“Shut _up_ ,” the young man said. He tugged on the skin of his thumb until it bled, and Roger watched in disgust as he suckled on it. “That new boy, the one named Kiran. I dislike him.”

‘Ah, Beyond Birthday,’ Roger would have liked to say. ‘You do not _like_ anyone.’

“He’s stupid. He doesn’t know how to use a goddamn dishwasher, but L is so interested in him. Why?” he raved, pacing about so erratically Roger had to shut his eyes lest he got dizzy from it. “I look like L the most. I’m the closest to him in IQ. Why does he look at _him_?”

“Perhaps he is tired of looking at you.”

“I would like to kill you myself with the way you speak to me.”

“Just as you would like to tell me the day I die? Everything must be so exhilarating for someone who wants to kill everyone.”

B’s red eyes bore into him and Roger returned the glare with a weary look. He had been at the receiving end of the teenager’s eyes for too long to be victim to it. The man sighed, “Perhaps you ought to get close to Kiran to find out why L is so interested. If you are as close to L as you say you are, you may get an inkling of understanding.”

B’s eyes widened and a chilling smile found its way to his lips, “Precisely! For a dying man who dislikes children and spends his time perusing insect books, you are surprisingly soft.”

“Oh, please, Beyond. No need to stroke my ego.”


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the entirety of the Death Note soundtracks and, honestly, I can tell the anime/manga is a bummer. It was really great, though. I really liked 01, 03, 04, 06, 07, 08, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 23, 24, 26, and 27 (AKA: nearly all of them). I haven’t even watched it, but I was like, “Man, why are they dead? None of them deserve it.” Because L didn’t deserve to die and Light didn’t deserve the power. It sucks, you know, that L did what he thought was right, as did Light. Light, who paved his way to Hell (or, nothingness, considering the Wikia I got some of my information off of) with good intention. I’m not surprised the power got to his head and he went all “I am God” on us, but it really stinks because his initial purpose was to help people. He looked up to his dad, dammit. He was just a kid.  
> My very barren arsenal increases: where Light (or Kiran) is just a kid, B crawls on all fours, and Near has no in-betweens.

“Your room,” Roger said, patting him on the back softly. “I will be in my office, should you require anything. Good night, Kiran.”

The door shut behind him and he stood still, wondering what to do. First, he would have to unpack his meager luggage into the wooden drawers. It was eight o’clock, so he would wash, prepare for bed, and study English with the aid of his laptop (a gift from Mr. Wammy, who apparently saw fit to offering a consolatory present for becoming an orphan) and Japanese-English dictionary.

So he did just that. The five shirts, three plain dress shirts, three jeans, two shorts, seven socks, one pair of sneakers, and one pair of sandals all found a place in the room, which was larger than his own back in his house. He used to share a space with Sayu, but—

‘Stop that,’ he chastised himself, wiping his wet eyes angrily with the backs of his hands. He suddenly felt like sobbing, just as he did at the funeral. He wanted Mr. Wammy’s shoulder, his arms wrapped comfortably around his waist, the faint aroma of cologne, the repetitive “I’m sorry”s that put him to sleep. He wanted a companion.

But he did not have one here, not yet.

Armed with his toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap in a plastic bag, Kiran departed for the bathroom. Already, he could hear the bright voices of the other children discussing Marx’s philosophy versus Kierkegaard’s, the connection between Greek and Roman art, and, whispered amongst the older, optimal coital positions within reason. (The answer, should he ever need it, was the CAT sex position, or _coital alignment technique_. Upon further research, he learned that it is “designed to maximize clitorial stimulation during coitus”.)

“Marx was a materialist—“

“Marx was a _historical_ materialist with practical politics. And, common misconception as it may be, he did not advocate mechanical materialism. It was merely that he believed society—no, the material factors of society—determined our thought process.”

“Very true. Then, suppose we discuss how Kierkegaard and Marx diverged from Hegel, the Philosophical Idealist…”

Kiran shouldered past the children to reach the running faucet, smiling apologetically whilst excusing himself. He felt that, in lieu of the understanding he ought to have, he had to smile. It was much easier, after all, to be agreeable than not.

“Republican Roman art, the period from five hundred and nine to twenty-seven BCE, _depended_ on the Greeks. Some may say the Roman arts are far more innovative, what with the creation of concrete and what not, but I say, “Don’t forget the Greeks!” Had they not invaded, they would not have learnt what they did.”

“ _Dīvide et īmpera_ , as they say. But, the Romans also created arches and engaged columns—“

“Ah, yes. Columns embedded in walls! Truly state-of-the-art.”

“Stop being such a wag. Engaged columns were state-of-the-art _at the time._ As was the first, second, third, and fourth style of wall painting. The Romans, however much you may disagree, _were_ very innovative, like the Pantheon for example…”

After squirting a blob of toothpaste onto his brush, he moved out of the way, to the sink at the farthest end. He watched as the others bustled to the stalls at the end of the room and as the seven sinks became occupied within minutes. The three stalls at the end flushed and the showers to the side were steaming. Kiran would have taken a shower, had he not left his toiletries in his room.

“No, there’s no way—absolutely not.”

“I’m telling you: it’s possible!”

“Not unless she lacks ribs, it’s not.”

“O ye of little faith! Trust in the human anatomy and its physiological responses. I assure you, with a bit of stretching of the limbs, anything is possible. Look at Iona Oyungerel Luvsandorj, April 18, 2009. She set the record for the longest time holding the Marinelli bend.”

“She held it for fifty seconds. No one can have coitus in that amount of time—hell, no one can _wank_ in that amount of time—“

“Think of the children, my friend. Do control yourself.”

“Very well then. _Relieve_ themselves of…tension. Of the lower anatomy. I’d like to take the time to remind you it was your idea to discuss such matters now, and not before, when we were—“

“It would do you well not to continue that sentence, darling. Now, with a flare for the dramatic, another conversation begins. A new topic, a new page, let us debate…”

He tossed his head back, mouth full of water, and rinsed out the bubbly remnants of toothpaste. Satisfied with the minty aftertaste in his mouth and his newly washed face, he made a beeline for the exit, where, to the right of him, was a sizable queue of boys waiting their turn. The hallway opposite of them was a similar sight, except there were girls instead.

“Was Judas Iscariot cursed to go to Hell?”

Kiran disappeared into his room.

 

It was three in the morn. Everyone—well, maybe not _everyone_ , but everyone that was relevant to him on a personal level (which was L)—was asleep, reflected by the rare silence blanketing the orphanage. B was undertaking a task of great importance, tiptoeing downstairs towards the corridors where the younger children slept. He was off to meet the boy, the one imported from Japan.

‘And I say ‘import’ because that’s precisely what he is: goods. Commodity,’ he thought to himself as he skipped the step second to the ground floor, since that one creaked the loudest.

His steps were very swift and long, unlike the usual trudging he did. Neither was a façade (or so he told himself), because he can be both ‘L’ and ‘B’. Like essences: one hundred percent L Lawliet and one hundred percent Beyond Birthday, but still one hundred percent. No less and no more.

He peeked through every door, scrutinizing the figures beneath the covers in his search for Kiran until, at last! B couldn’t see the latter’s face clearly, as the child had his back turned towards the door, but he had the sense to connect the dots, what with the Japanese-English dictionary fallen to the floor and the laptop with half its lid shut. After coaxing the entrance open and slipping into the bedroom with a furtiveness L would be proud of, he shut the door soundlessly and took inventory of the room.

There was a pair of sneakers and sandals, placed alongside each other, beside the right of the door. The luggage the boy entered the orphanage with was flattened and folded neatly into the crevice beneath the drawers, which, upon thorough investigation, contained folded stacks of clothing. The wardrobe, which he couldn’t open completely lest it continued that obnoxious creaking, held black and white dress shirts. Kiran was, B concluded, pampered enough to have a fashion sense.

B hated pampered kids.

He slithered to the floor on all fours, reveling the feeling of the floor tiles against his palms. He enjoyed the way it felt to traverse through the dark room, clothed knees scraping against the wood and fingers thrumming with excitement, and crawled around for a while. Towards Kiran, towards the door, towards the wall: always towards something. It was smooth and, after swiping his hands across them to feel the indents between each inlay, recently wiped clean. Kiran was, he concluded, pampered enough to have an almost obsessive sense of cleanliness and order.

His ears suddenly perked up at the muffled crinkling of sheets moving, so he crept towards the bed. B drew himself off his hands, opting to kneel and prop his head on the bed, and stared as Kiran clutched at the covers. The boy started tossing his head and murmuring apologies. The elder watched, interested beyond belief, as he had never seen someone experience nightmares firsthand.

‘I’ve never seen night terrors, either,’ he pondered to himself, inching a hand toward the sleeping figure. ‘What to do, what to do.’ And his heart leapt in joy as he shot his hand forward, wrapping his long fingers around Kiran’s delicate neck and squeezing firmly. He felt a fluttering pulse against his fingertips and had to resist crushing the windpipe as a spark of euphoria traveled through his body. He allowed himself the pleasure, however, of constricting his grip a bit more, captivated by the warm racing vibrations tapping against his palm.

 

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t _breathe_.

Before he realized it, he was sitting up, his own small hands clawing at his throat: there was nothing there. He coughed, gasping as his panicked gaze ran over everything in his room, but it was for naught. The shoes were untouched, the drawers unmoved, and the darkness ever prevalent in his vision. The moon, high and bright in the sky, was the only reason why he could pick out blurry shapes.

Kiran sat there for a while, wondering what was happening. He had most definitely felt something on his throat. His shoulders shook as another coughing fit passed and a myriad of unreasonable thoughts shoved their way into his head. Logically, there couldn’t be ghost, but the room was so quiet. There couldn’t be a bogeyman under his bed or a monster in his closet (but what if there was?).

‘Did I have a panic attack?’ he wondered, tracing his fingertips over his sensitive throat. ‘But I felt something squeezing my neck.’ And he couldn’t help but be a little paranoid, couldn’t help but feel an irrational sort of fear that made him think someone was in the room with him. ‘I should check.’

But his muscles refused to move, despite their incessant twitching. He should check, to put his mind at ease that _nothing was there_ , but he wasn’t able to do it. What if something was there when he checked? Kiran supposed that was the scarier thought: the possibilities. That anything, or anyone, should be in his bedroom was extremely unlikely.

‘And no one is here to check for me,’ he thought, clutching his bed sheets closer to his throbbing chest. ‘If Father was here—’

No. He refused to go down that train of thought. ‘I miss them so very much. How I long to see them again!’ And he wept as silently as he could because even hearing the sound of his own hiccupping spiked his fear that someone else might hear. ‘But I will not. I can’t, because they are buried beneath six feet of dirt in Japan and I am here, breathing the air and confined in Winchester, England, at an orphanage that breeds genii. Mother, Father, and dear Sayu, who was only nine, and I am alone. Very alone.’

The next time he awoke, it was to the sound of polite knocking on his doors and a, “Breakfast will be served in thirty minutes”. Kiran realized his tears had left shiny trails over the softness of his cheeks and his nose was stuffy upon sitting up. The shards of sunlight beaming into his room brought along with it a sense of security that had abandoned him at night. He brought his head down and checked the space beneath him: nothing. A sigh of relief, along with a slight burn of humiliation at his fear, slipped past his lips.

Morning greetings could be heard outside his door, so he snatched his toiletries, slipped on sandals (for the showers, since he refused to be barefoot in a place potentially crawling with germs), and left for the facilities.

 

Near grumbled petulantly as his poor toes were crushed by another sneakered foot. Why did everyone wear shoes? It only made things dirtier. If they didn’t leave to play in the courtyard, they wouldn’t need shoes. Without shoes, the floors would be clean. With clean floors, his toes wouldn’t be so sore every morning.

Admittedly, he was partially at fault, as he was the one who had forgotten his shoes back in his room, but he was already on line by the time he realized he was without them. And what was he to do? Leave his spot for someone else to take? Preposterous. If there was anything to say about him, it would be that he was extremely possessive. Anything he was not possessive over was something he did not care about.

The boy noticed a movement in his peripheral vision as someone waited in line behind him and prepared his ears for the chatter, but none came. Clutching his white stuffed bunny with blue pads on its feet (and he knew it was not a blue bunny with white fur because it was more than seventy percent white and he did not like things that were not white), he very discreetly peered over his shoulder because no one came on line without a partner.

It was Kiran, whose hair was somehow not an absolute mess and honey-colored eyes looked oddly puffy. Had he cried? Or was it an allergic reaction? Fluid retention? Stress? Hormones? The object of his attention returned his gaze, calculating eyes focusing on his hair, then his face, then his clothes, then his bunny, and finally his toes. Near wiggled them, uncomfortable with the scrutiny but not entirely against it.

“Good morning,” Kiran said, voice slightly raspy from the last night’s sleep. The corner of his lip lifted, and Near found himself returning it.

“Morning,” he mumbled, kicking his toiletries as the line inched forward. He didn’t have much else to say—rather, he didn’t _know_ what to say. Outrageous, was it not? That he, ranked third on the board, had no skill in small talk. No skill in any form of conversation, really. “Your hair looks very nice.”

“Yours as well,” and the eight-year-old absorbed the way the latter’s eyes smiled, too, “Would you like me to carry your things? Your…”

“Toiletries,” he offered. “If you would, please.” Then he watched as twelve-year-old Kiran bent down and swept his soaps off the floor. They moved up again and Near wracked his brain for something to say, but his mind was blank even as they approached the door. Conversing was frustrating beyond belief, especially since it was something he wanted to do at the moment. They stepped through the door, only three people away from reaching the showers, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind when he noticed Kiran handing Near his shampoo. “Care to wash with me?”

‘Dear Lord,’ he thought to himself, mortified at his elementary behavior and fearful of the latter’s reaction. This was precisely why he didn’t speak: because he could not, lest he humiliate himself so thoroughly no one could forget within the next five to ten years. ‘Wash with me? What was I thinking? This is worse than _Mello_ last night, worse than his interrogation, worse than Mello’s friend’s halfhearted responses, worse than—“

“How old are you?”

“Eight,” he replied, feeling very stupid and battling the heat from reaching his cheeks because he wasn’t _stupid_. He didn’t want to be treated like a child, he wanted to be treated like a friend, and logically, when one asks for age, it’s for the hierarchy. Kiran spoke to himself a few words Near could not pick up and the albino suddenly wished that Mello was here to tell him. Something about a _sayu_ , which he knew defined as something along the lines of _feeble_ or _melancholy_ in Indonesian, but he doubted someone barely fluent in English would know Indonesian, though the distance between Japan and Indonesia was an eight-hour flight at most. Or was it a seven-hour-and-thirty-minute flight?

“Okay.” Then they went off to the showers, Kiran carrying two-peoples worth of soap and Near carrying his white bunny. The older of the two flipped a couple knobs to get the shower started and they quickly stripped out of their clothes. Or rather, Kiran did: Near was not one to rush. The Japanese boy ran his hand beneath the water and, after deciding it was warm enough, helped the latter out of his pajamas.

While unclasping the buttons, he asked, “What’s his name? Your rabbit?”

“Bunny,” Near corrected offhandedly, focusing on a button he was struggling with. “His name is Apricum.” Kiran, who had undone all the subsequent buttons, reached up and assisted him whilst humming in response.

“What does that mean?”

“Sunlight.”

“In English?”

“Latin.”

All Near had to do during their exchange was stand as the other boy lathered his hair, rinsed it, and did it again but with another substance. Something called ‘conditioner’, which was something Near had never used but was intent on using after feeling how soft his hair was after using it.

“You are wearing your sandals in the shower.”

“Yes.”

“Are you a germaphobe?”

“No.”

Near was still cleansing his body by the time Kiran was done; alas, even then, there was foam on only the upper half. Kiran seemed to contemplate leaving, which would have made the latter quite upset, but opted against it as he softly procured the loofah from the younger and washed the rest. He looked very awkward for a change, as he resolutely did not stare at what was in front of him.

“You look very odd,” commented the albino, warm and nearly lulled to sleep by the previous shampooing he had received, despite the steady tapping of water droplets against his back. It fell in streams off his sopping hair onto Kiran’s spine.

“I feel very odd.”

“Why?” he asked, lifting his leg so that Kiran could reach the back.

“I do not do this often—no, I have never done this. Ever.”

“Why?”

“I never had a brother. Are you done? Let’s dry up.”

Near did not “dry up”, electing to watch his friend instead. In the end, the brunet had to dry him, carefully wringing his hair and toweling every bead of water. It appeared, by the time Kiran was dressed and stepping on his sandals to squeeze out the last of its wetness, that Near had not brought a change of clothes.

“Why are you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like _this_.”

“Whatever do you mean, Kiran?” He was asking because he honestly did not know. Was it his character? Was he expected to be some sort of conversationalist? A raconteur? Was it because he did not bring new clothing? Was it his bare feet in the showers? They were cleaned every night. Should he inform Kiran of that?

“Just…wait here. I’ll be right back.”

So he waited, feeling slightly scandalized (when someone walked into the shower and gaped at his completely nude body) and very abandoned (when his only method of getting the outsider to leave was to return the stare) until Kiran returned with a bundle of clothing. Near was chagrined to see that, although the dress shirt was white, the pants were not.

“Wear them, please. We can go to your room and wear whatever you want.”

And if he was satisfied with the fact that the clothing embraced his frame loosely and that Kiran was walking beside him, who was to know? That he was, very secretly, pleased when he picked out another pair of white pajamas and socks and Kiran dressed him without hesitation, who could prove it?

“If I were to name you, I would name you Apricum.”


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23 orphans, 1 founder, and 1 caretaker. You probably won’t even meet them all, but I just thought I should say because I took the time to count (wow, what a hard task) all the names/letters on the Wikia. Anyhow. I now know that the Wammy House was formed to create L’s successors.  
> “But it’s too late,” you might say. “It’s already been established that L is still in the orphanage!”  
> You would be exactly right, but the problem is solved with two letters: AU. Yes, this is an alternate universe where the orphanage was created for the purpose of breeding notable names, not breeding the successor of a world-renowned detective.  
> My knowledge grows: where Light (or Kiran) has underlying motives that aren’t necessarily bad and B has trouble differentiating himself from L.

The several days following his first were not as eventful, but just as hectic. That Saturday, he had stayed indoors with the albino (he had yet to learn his name, but as he had seemingly missed the chance to ask, he now merely dubbed him as ‘the albino’) to ‘play’ with his toys. Sunday, he had a choice between attending a church service or staying at the orphanage. (He stayed at the orphanage.)

“Kiran,” the child had said, tilting his head and boring his dark eyes into Kiran’s face. “Care to play with me this weekend?”

“Alright,” he had replied, for he had no plans and he could always study more English with the eight-year-old, if need be. Later, it appeared that there was no need to do bring his translator and laptop, as the albino had apparently planned out their day ahead of time.

Classes, he had discovered, were organized by pairing age groups; thus, he was in the 11-13 group that consisted of a total of seven children. The 7-8 group had six, the 9-10 group seven, and the LAB (which he still had trouble believing were legitimate names) group had only the three individuals in question. With a curriculum so vastly unlike the one back in Japan, he was flummoxed for a good half of the lesson; luckily, a swarthy boy named Zamir sidled up beside him just as they were dismissed for lunch one particular Thursday afternoon.

“I will help you,” he stated, flashing white teeth in a great smile, “so, worry not! I, myself, had to learn English within the span of six or seven days—languages are not my forte, you must understand—and have compiled, in my mind, a very great list of techniques for, essentially, cramming. Naturally, should the _maths_ be an issue for you, I may be of more help.”

“Thank you,” he replied, then tilted his chin towards the list of numbered names on the side of the blackboard as they were leaving. _1 Rae, 2 Zamir, 3 Tobias, 4 Valechka, 5…_ Zamir followed Kiran’s gaze.

“That’s the class rank. These change every Friday due to the weekly tests we take—now, the _board_ is a different matter, as it compiles us orphans as a whole; thus, though I may be ranked second in _this_ particular class, I have yet to break the seventh place mark of Wammy’s House. Math only makes up a portion of the test, regrettably, but imagine if it was another test in and of itself! I reckon we’d have many ranked at first, then.”

Kiran hummed in agreement, mourning silently that the very boy who extended a hand to him, one who was not yet versed in English, was awfully verbose. But what could be done of it? Zamir seemed like a lovely person.

“I’ll have you know—well, I suppose you would know already, at this point—that I _do_ enjoy math. Truly. I love writing equations, most of all—I do it to pass the time. I wrote a parametric equation the other day to form a curve in the shape of an anatomical brain. It goes: x of t is equal to double open-parentheses negative one-third sin open-parenthesis fourteen-ninths minus twenty-four t close-parenthesis minus three-fifths sin open-parenthesis eleven-sevenths minus twenty- _three_ t close-parenthesis minus…”

Quite lovely.

And the duo walked down the corridor like that, Zamir rattling off numbers and himself nodding as he graphed every concave in his mind. Even after passing under the wooden arch, the stream of numbers and parentheses, of fractions and trigonometric identities, had yet to cease—or, perhaps it had already stopped and Kiran’s mind was merely echoing what Zamir had said. With the clattering of dishware and excited chatter that burst from within the mess, it was perplexing to differentiate between the torrent of words. Which did he listen to? But he smiled when he felt Zamir’s dark eyes dig into the side of his head and failed, every time he twisted to neck to look at his companion, to see if his mouth was moving.

They were on line, waiting for a plate of food that was, Kiran realized, catered towards the individual, as one reached their seat with a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast while another went with something that looked like a pancake with spots.

“A methi paratha,” Zamir had corrected good-naturedly. “I remember eating it with my parents—my goodness, that seems like ages ago. Seven years, can you believe it? Say, you arrived at Wammy’s House quite late. What have you got to say?”

“Nothing really. There was an accident and now…now I’m here.”

“An accident? Was it _really_? Or is that a new euphemism for being abandoned—apologies, I meant no offense by that. I hope you understand…it’s unusual for a Wammy’s orphan to have much experience with family. We’re not very sensitive to it.”

Abandoned. ‘What an odd word,’ he thought to himself, feeling a familiar constricting in his chest and the telltale indication of tears through the ball lodged in his esophagus. ‘I have been abandoned, in a way. No better than a child who’s family went to the corner store and never returned.’ Except he had been left with three bloody carcasses he would never get to see and three closed caskets as they lowered into the ground, never to see the light of day.

“Our thoughts all coincide, though, Kiran. No need to feel so isolated. Not at all! Andrew Marvell, my friend. Have you ever heard of him? The genius behind the metaphysical poem called _To His Coy Mistress_? I suppose it doesn’t matter much, since that isn’t as important as the knowledge I’m going to impart to you. Listen very closely, Kiran, for this is the secret to tire yourself of mourning:

“‘Had we but world enough, and time.’ Do ponder that quote, for it is a very beautiful one—sad and melancholic, perhaps, but nevertheless beautiful. Spend a week or so with it, I suggest, and during that week, mourn all you’d like. What could have been, what would have been, how everything might be, at this very moment, if they weren’t…gone, let us say. A week of reflection and the rest of your life to look toward the future, isn’t that so, Kiran? I do so love happy endings.”

The afternoon, at this point, was thoroughly ruined for him. And he hadn’t yet even gotten a plate of breakfast!

‘Had I but world enough, and time,’ he thought to himself in a sort of dispassionate wonder. Three people stood in front of him. ‘I would change everything. I would beg them not to go. No, maybe even before then, I would kiss them more. I would hold Mother’s hand when she held it out to whilst crossing the street. I would ask how Father’s day was every morning, even if his only reply would likely be a half-hearted grunt at most. I would help Sayu with her homework, more willingly. Maybe I would give her my notes instead of making her take her own. I would bake more with her and spend less time in my room. Why did I spend so much time in my room? Wasting my time?’ Why was there never enough _time_?

Wait, but who was that? Where was that sobbing coming from? That hiccupping that lacked decorum of any sort?

It was himself. And he realized, albeit belatedly, that he did not want to be here. That he did not want to be drowned in the voices of twenty children—of twenty orphans—when the three he most wanted to hear from were silenced forever. That he would have liked to be with his family, even if they were six feet under ground (because at least they were together).

And he thought all this with a smile fixed upon his face as if it was intricately sewn into his muscles, and tears were spilling from his eyes like blood from an open wound, down his cheeks to his chin where it trickled off and plummeted to the ground. Then there was a shock of white hair beneath him, a youthful face looking up at him, and he immediately thought of Sayu, even though she wasn’t a boy and she wasn’t eight years old. Of Sayu, whose soul would have been just as white, maybe even whiter than an albino’s hair.

He began to see her in his memories: in Zamir, who talked just as much as her, in the albino, who shared the same petite height as her, in the blond he met the other day, who was just as enthusiastic and boisterous, in _L_ , who was just as messy (maybe even more so) as her.

But all they had were aspects of her. If he had torn her to pieces, shred every part of her soul and sprinkled it across the wide span of Earth, this is what he would be left with: incompletion. For Zamir, though just as garrulous, loved the maths while she had hated it. The albino, though small, had a calculating look in his eyes that she never had. The blond, though enthusiastic, was prone to arrogance where she had none. And L, with his terrible eating habits, was truly nothing like her at all. He was older by a hefty eight years and his eyes were underlined with the dark indications of insomnia. He was averse to shoes, it seemed, for he wore none the two times they met. His brand of sarcastic humor was starkly unlike Sayu’s playful jests. He had terrible posture. And most of all—most heartbreaking of all—he was not Sayu.

Perhaps that is what pulled him, beside the sense of propriety instilled within his nature, to leave the mess hall, for everyone looked like her without looking like her at all. It would be in the small things, the infinitesimal things, that brought the rush of memories colliding into the side of his skull. As he left, he saw flashes of her eating just because of the certain position a fork was held. She was there, waiting for him beneath his eyelids, when he turned the corner and was jolted back as his nose bumped against someone’s chest, a flash of black temporarily cutting his vision. She was in his arms when he wrapped them around himself, as he slid down the monotone walls and wept. She was above him, an unknown look in her eyes he had never seen before, as she stood hunched over him. When had her posture become so terrible?

“Come here,” he beckoned at her with outstretched arms, ignoring the shakiness his voice had adopted. “Come here and let me hold you.”

But Sayu merely stood there, frozen in time. He wondered if the expression on her face was just as it was when she died and hoped, fervently, that it wasn’t. That, when she died, she did so with a face familiar to him.

“Come here,” he begged, never allowing his voice to go above a trembling whisper. “Everything will be alright, so come here.”

She came down, crouching in a way he had never seen her crouch before, and allowed Kiran to envelope her in his arms. She was larger than he remembered, with a broader back, and a distinct smell of sugar she never had before.

‘Don’t let me go,’ he wanted to say, as he rose to meet her. When had she gotten so big? Where had all the time gone? The only scene playing on repeat—the only scenes he’d been reliving for the past months—was of his family leaving the house. (“We’ll return soon, Light,” they had said. “After we drop Sayu off at her piano lesson, we’ll talk.” Light had been brewing with an underlying anger that evening, though he couldn’t recall why since it didn’t seem as significant anymore.)

‘Don’t let me leave,’ she would reply, and a tint of accusation would color her voice. She would have an adorable pout on her face—no, her eyes would be puffy and red: remainders of tears she couldn’t shed at her death. ‘How could that be your last word to me? ‘Alright,’ you said. How can that be? Don’t you love me? Didn’t you say you loved me?’

“I love you,” he found himself saying as he cradled her head to his chest. He was up on his knees, running his fingers through her obsidian hair and pressing kisses against it. She used to press her head against his lips, wriggling for more. “I do, I do. I’ll protect you from now on, I swear. If you stay with me, I’ll never leave you.” Within the distance between his conscience and his body, he wondered why she was so still.

 

That day, there was little for B to do. After Wammy’s customary morning reminders that “breakfast is in thirty minutes”, he was left to his own devices. He wondered, briefly, if he should bother going to class at all. A would be there, per usual, but L would definitely forego it in favor of seeking a new case. Perhaps B would attend the first four hours and, after lunch, spend the rest of the day in his room. After all, he didn’t particularly enjoy A’s company, the depressing bastard; that, and he didn’t see a purpose in suffering through the same space with someone who’s life was ending so soon.

‘I reckon he’d much rather end his own life than notice anything outside the continuum of his own existence,’ he thought to himself as he tangled himself with his sheets. ‘He should just off himself. Heavens, it would save us a lot of trouble.’

A was a risk and everyone—well, everyone B took the time to notice (which was limited to L)—knew it. It wasn’t in his actions per say, but the words he’d mumble every now and then, the longing gaze in his eyes when he’d see something on the telly (specifically about ‘tragic’ suicides), or the way his ears perked up when L spoke about murder cases. A smelt of death and sought it out like a dog for a bone.

‘I ought to talk to the bastard some time,’ he rose to a sit. ‘I’ll regret it, but there’s nothing like a morose discussion first thing in the morning.”

He was descending the staircase when he caught sight of A sluggishly closing his bedroom door, blond hair a mess. Just looking at him made B want to kill him: what a waste of space!

“Still alive, I see,” he greeted with a saccharine smile adorned on his face. He wondered if the numbers above A’s head would change any time soon. “Thought you’d be dead by now. Still contemplating your inevitable death?”

There was no reply, not even a look of acknowledgement, so he continued speaking, “I can do it for you, if you’d like. God knows I’d like to. Nothing sets my spirit on fire than you, did you know? I despise you so.”

A spared him a weary look, “Does this not tire you? The nuisance you are.”

He responded by dramatically pressed the pads of his fingertips against his chest, “Me? A nuisance? How you scar me so. And no, I do not tire of this: I am hopeful, rather, that it will convince you to die sooner. Your numbers are ever enclosing, A, and I eagerly await the day I can spit on your grave—not that you’d have one. Dear me, excuse the misstep.”

“I tire of your company as of late,” A sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “You grow closer and closer to resembling a broken record every time we meet.”

Once the wooden arch was visible, B grew uninterested in A and slunk ahead.

He devoured his breakfast, five slices of bread with strawberry jam generously slathered on one side, within minutes. L probably wouldn’t come down, so there was little to no purpose in staying at the mess; thus, he dropped his plate off at the rolling serving cart and went upstairs to wait in the classroom. Naturally, A came in later, prepared and meticulous to a fault that made B want to stalk over and snap all his precious pencils and tear all his notes to pieces. L did not come, and B had become used to it in such a way that made him less and less disappointed each time. For L did not need to be here: B would defend L’s spot as number one. This was trust. It had to be.

B had even gone as far as requested the removal of his name from the board. What was the point, anyhow? He was L and L was he: it made no sense to differentiate names if they were to reside at the same spot every time. B need only look to L to find himself. Was that not easier?

Then lunch arrived as the hour hand ticked to one o’clock. Lunch would last an hour and another four would be spent in class. However, B followed through with his plan and contemplated whether or not he should visit L; alas, when he peeped his head through L’s door, he was met with only disordered stacks of paper and half-open monitors, some with their batteries drained and others dimming from lack of use.

Before he could slip inside to rifle through the myriad of information and research, L’s murmuring voice hindered him.

“B.”

“L,” he turned, “I missed you at class this morning.”

L huffed but didn’t deign to reply to B, the arrogant sort he was. He couldn’t be blamed, though: B was just the same. Some thoroughly occupying though must be on his mind, one that B was not privy to. Yet.

“Something on your mind?”

The latter hummed, “Nothing that concerns you. Step away from my door, please.” L had a certain look on his face, one that only happened when in the face of a pastry or a new development on a case. The light in his eyes was a little brighter and the barest hint of a smile dangled at the edge of his lip.

“You’re in a mood today. A good one,” B slunk out of the way and watched L as he approached the space.

There was a pregnant pause, as L seemed to run the thought over and over in his head. “I suppose so. I wonder if this means I have a bit of a sadistic streak?”

“Whatever for?” He awaited the older boy’s response, but there was none. Instead, the door was clicked shut and B was left alone in the hallway.

He retreated to his bedroom, brooding silently until the thick blackness of nightfall crawled in through the windowpanes. B was suddenly inspired as he caught sight of the moon hanging silently in the sky, for he had left that Japanese boy alone for a week or so. He ought to visit him once more, as he was still irritated that L hadn’t shared his thoughts with him and his hands itched to crush something within its grasp.

Kiran’s room welcomed him as he clicked the door quietly behind him. Immediately, as he was practiced at this point, he dropped to cradle the floor against his cheek. This boy’s room was the cleanest, B knew, for he was far more thorough than the weekly maids that came every Sunday. The maids were primarily focused on the bathroom and kitchen cleanup, though they did a perfunctory mopping of the floor. The water only relocated grime from one corner to another.

The moonlight filtering through the windows was just strong enough to reflect off the glass jar of jam in his hand, painting a thin white film over the blunt edges. B crawled, tapping his fingers on the floor as he approached the bed in anticipation, and plopped himself down. His jam was masterfully placed beside the sleeping boy, close enough to make a shot of adrenaline shoot down his fingertips when Kiran fidgeted but far enough to ensure no immediate contact. It was a reward of sorts, to himself, when he descended to the boy’s room after waiting for a month: there was nowhere else clean enough to move on all fours. Not without leaving a trail of dust on his pants, that is. And imagine the pain in washing those pants himself! L would be curious and find out that B wasn’t as close to L as he had once thought. L would be terribly disappointed.

‘So it cannot be done,’ thought he, twisting open the jar. He stuck two digits in and lifted up a globule of strawberry jam. The sweet aroma congesting the room was enough to make his mouth water. ‘It must be here.’

Tongue extended, B lapped at his fingers. The red jam, combined with the texture of congealed strawberries, fell onto his tongue and he chewed slowly. His eyes never left the steady up-and-down of Kiran’s chest and he kept his ears perked for the indicative sound of awakening. The strawberry seeds caught between his molars were crushed, ground to indistinguishable pieces.

Burgundy orbs traced long eyelashes that captured shards of light, traveling the uphill of his nose and the two pink mounds of lips, and dipping after the soft peak of his chin to his fragile neck. The rest was concealed beneath a vast plane of rippling cloth.

Once his precious jam was eaten and every seed was pulverized, B traversed the floor another time as a means of memorizing it. He dragged his blunt nails across it, delighting in the pressure that threatened to tear it from his skin. His toenails dragged behind him, playing a monotonous symphony against the wood grain. Like that, he slunk from corner to corner, creeping beneath the bed when he fancied. After his nature was accommodated, he plopped himself beside his jar of jam to watch Kiran through its distorted lens.

‘Or is it in my nature at all? Even if L doesn’t do it?’ he pondered, tilting the glass from side to side and observing the indistinct image shift. ‘I would wager that L is hiding his own nature as well. It may be the same as mine—or rather, mine may be the same as his.’

He hadn’t even had the time to disappear beneath the bed before a quiet whimper escaped the child’s throat. Closed eyelids snapped open with a short gasp and honey met strawberry, dribbling over it in the sluggish way it did, seeping into its pores and sweetening everything like poison running through a man’s blood. The glass jar sitting at the edge of the bed tumbled to the ground and rolled away.


End file.
